


All the Things You Mean to Me

by writeonclara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Romance, brief mention of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 02:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20332441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeonclara/pseuds/writeonclara
Summary: Aziraphale tries his hand at tempting (and fails), gets himself into trouble, finds a friend and nearly loses him, and realizes just what Crowley means to him in the process.On the other hand, Crowley has always known what Aziraphale means to him. It’s obvious.Or: Five things Crowley is to Aziraphale, and one thing Aziraphale is to Crowley.





	All the Things You Mean to Me

**1.  
Crowley is infernal.******

****  
  
****  
_In the Outskirts of Mercia, 1020 AD_

Aziraphale is sat at a table by himself, tucked away in the corner of a small, dank tavern, cradling a tankard of watered-down wine. He’s convinced that wine will eventually be one of the greatest inventions of mankind, but they haven’t quite got it right yet. He takes a sip, then scrunches his nose and sighs. It’s too young. There’s so much potential under the tart, acidic flavor, but it’s all rather rough around the edges. Sort of like its progenitor, he supposes.

A fire blazes merrily in the hearth, tended to by a serving maid while she flirts with the group of traveling knights. Humans really are quite fascinating. Moreso now, as he can watch firsthand how they create and invent and adapt to the world they’re changing in leaps and bounds. Sometimes, Aziraphale feels like he’s blinked and an entire century has flown by, leaving him scrambling to catch up.

Aziraphale tears his eyes away from his contemplation of the humans when the door to the tavern swings open and a familiar long-legged figure saunters in as if he owns the place. The black trousers he’s chosen to wear are quite unnecessarily tight, in Aziraphale’s opinion, although he has to admit that his tunic—also black, of course—fits him quite well. Aziraphale feels his face twist into a petulant scowl, but he quickly rearranges it into a disapproving frown.

Crowley spreads out his hands when he sees Aziraphale, a broad, pleased grin stretching across his face. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale hates—well, no, he’s an angel, he doesn’t actually hate anything—Aziraphale _dislikes_ how Crowley says his name, elongated and slithery, like _he’s_ the snake. He pointedly turns in his chair, lifting his tankard to his mouth to hide his frown. “I have no desire for your company tonight.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” says Crowley, slinking up to him. Aziraphale had purposefully chosen a table with only one chair, but that doesn’t stop Crowley from dragging one over from an unoccupied table. He spins it around and drops into it, all in one showy movement. “It’s just business, darling.”

“Six years—!” Aziraphale starts to say, voice high-pitched and furious. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “No, of course you’re right. I shouldn’t expect anything less from a demon.”

When Crowley doesn’t respond immediately, Aziraphale opens his eyes again. He finds Crowley watching him, head cocked to the side. He’s not grinning anymore, but he’s not frowning, either. Azirphale wishes he weren’t wearing those infernal darkened spectacles so he could see those reptilian eyes.

Only so that he can read his emotions. No other reason, of course.

Irritably, he takes another swig of his awful wine and pointedly does not make a face at the taste.

“Oy, wench!” Crowley calls—rudely, since he is a demon. “Let’s have have another round of this delicious wine, yeah? Tell you what—make that a round for the whole bar. I had a _great_ day.”

The knights, whose expressions had become surly at Crowley’s rude interruption, light up with sycophantic grins. Theoretically they’re Aziraphale’s knights, or at least, on _his_ side, but humans can be such fickle creatures. Especially in the face of the Original Tempter. Aziraphale slumps further over his side of the table. All he’d wanted to do was indulge in a quiet sulk, but of course Crowley had to come by to rub it in his face.

“Don’t take it so hard, angel,” Crowley croons, stealing Aziraphale’s tankard.

Aziraphale stares down at his empty hands, bereft. “Even my _wine_.”

Crowley snorts, then laughs at him. “Oh calm down. You’ll have a fresh new tankard in two shakes of a snake’s tail. Besides, it’s only fair, since you’ve got a head start on me.”

Crowley’s right. In no time at all, the serving maid sashays up to the table, setting two new tankards in front of them with a smile for Aziraphale and a flirty wink for Crowley. This does not appease Aziraphale at all. He even goes so far as to ignore Crowley when he holds his tankard up in cheers.

Crowley shakes the tankard at him meaningfully.

Aziraphale pointedly brings the wine to his lips.

Crowley beams expectantly at him.

Giving up, Aziraphale taps his tankard against Crowley’s, but he does it lightly and yanks it away so fast that some of his drink sloshes over the rim.

“See, the thing is, angel,” says Crowley, leaning one arm on the table and grinning up at him. “If you’d just agreed to the Arrangement in the first place—”

“There is no Arrangement.”

“Yes but if there were, you wouldn’t have wasted six years. We could have just written into our head offices telling them we did what they asked, and then gone off on our merry ways. No time wasted.”

“I’m not—” Aziraphale snaps, and then inhales deeply to rein in his temper. “I told you already. My people check these things. I can’t just—” He waves a hand irritably.

Crowley takes a long swig from his drink, apparently not minding the astringent taste. His eyebrows furrow slightly, like he just had an idea and isn’t sure if he likes it.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asks, curious in spite of himself.

“We-ell,” say Crowley, licking some wine from the corner of his mouth. “I was just thinking—doesn’t really need to be _you_ who does the miracle, does it?”

Aziraphale stops in the middle of lifting his tankard to his lips. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I’m just as capable of—” He waves his hand in a mockery of Aziraphale’s earlier gesture.

“You’re suggesting that _you_ would perform my miracles?”

Crowley shrugs. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Both of us don’t need to be there if one of us can get the job done.”

Lowering his drink again, Aziraphale turns the idea over in his head. It’s true—as Crowley had said before, in that damp, foggy forest, when he was the black knight—most of the time when he and Crowley work the same area, they end up canceling each other out. But if just one of them were there, doing the blessing and the cursing to throw off the scent—

“Hang on,” says Aziraphale, frowning suddenly. “Are you implying that _I_ would need to do _your_ deeds? You expect me to”—he drops his voice, looking around nervously—“to tempt?”

“Heaven forfend,” says Crowley, mockingly.

“Heaven forfends indeed!”

“I’d never ask you to do anything _too_ bad, angel,” says Crowley. “Nothing that would risk those wings of yours. Just some minor tempting here and there.”

“I don’t know how to _tempt_.”

“It’s simple. Look, just try it on that knight over there. Tempt him to go flirt with the serving wench.”

Aziraphale looks down into his tankard, hoping to find a shred of sanity in its plummy depths. He shouldn’t even be considering this ridiculous scheme—he’s far too drunk to be thinking clearly—but he can’t lose to a—to a _demon_. So he girds himself for the wine and the temptation, throws back the rest of his drink, and gets to his feet.

The knight’s sitting a little apart from his friends, hands wrapped around his tankard. He’s handsome enough, if one doesn’t mind a couple of missing teeth and a nose that’s been broken more than once. But his hair’s a fetching shade of auburn, and his eyes are a pleasant shade of light brown. He also has an inviting smile for Aziraphale, which is nice.

“Excuse me, sir,” says Aziraphale, taking the seat across from him. “Might I interest you in a little temptation?”

The knight blinks, surprised. Then his grin widens. “Well, I do like a man who knows what he wants.”

“Oh, splendid,” says Aziraphale, leaning forward with a smile. He thinks he can hear Crowley spluttering from the table behind him, but he ignores him. “I’m new at this, you see.”

The knight’s eyes sharpen. “First time?”

“Oh quite.”

The knight gets to his feet, taking Aziraphale’s hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”

“W-wait,” says Aziraphale. He’s beginning to get the sense that they might not be on the same page. And—yes, that’s definitely Crowley laughing behind him. “Dreadfully sorry, I didn’t mean _I’m_ the temptation.”

The skin between the knight’s eyebrows wrinkle in irritated confusion. “Who did you mean, then?”

Oh, this is awkward. He can’t very well say he meant for the knight to flirt with the serving maid.

“I don’t appreciate being toyed with—” the knight says, voice hardening with indignation.

“No, of course not. Who would?” Aziraphale laughs nervously. “I just meant—” Looking around wildly, his eyes land on Crowley, who is doubled over in laughter.

_“Really,”_ tuts Aziraphale.

Crowley snaps his fingers and everyone in the tavern freezes in place. He pushes up his spectacles and swipes at the corner of one eye. There’s still laughter in those yellow depths, but something else, too. Something a little sharper. “Angel, that was a _brilliant_ first temptation. You’re a natural.”

“I am not,” Aziraphale huffs. He drops back into his seat and steals Crowley’s new tankard from him. It feels a little daring—Crowley is the Enemy, and ostensibly quite dangerous—but Crowley doesn’t try to burn him with Hellfire for his transgression.

“You’re not,” Crowley agrees. His smile has softened a little. “Nothing you can’t get better at with a little practice, though.”

Aziraphale frowns down into his tankard. He can’t believe he’s even considering it. “Only a very little?”

Crowley pinches his fingers together.

“This is a terrible idea,” says Aziraphale.

“The absolute worst,” says Crowley, grinning triumphantly.

**2.  
Crowley is redoubtable.**

_Northumberland, Ten Years Later_

This is all Crowley’s fault.

_“Just a small temptation,”_ he’d said. _“You’re off to Northumberland anyway, right? What could possibly go wrong?”_ he’d said.

Nothing was said about the _sorcerer_.

On a whole, Aziraphale has no problems with magic. To him, it’s just another quirk that some humans had the gift for. Except _this_ human apparently preferred Downstairs and had, somehow, gotten his grubby hands on a pair of gold manacles infused with Hellfire.

_Oh, bollocks_, Aziraphale had thought when the manacles had snapped shut on his wrists, before the fire burned into him and sent him to his knees.

Then there had been a spell of time where the sorcerer had tortured him, which was just about as unpleasant as it sounded. What bothered Aziraphale the most, however, was what little _sense_ it made. Why torture him? Whatever had he done to this man? For all their beauty and goodness, there was also a senseless ugliness that could only be found in the hearts of humans.

The sorcerer—such a young man, with green eyes and mousy brown hair, barely out of his teenage years—had left him alone in a small, dusty room. The room has nothing more in it than a straw-filled mattress in one corner and a cracked basin in the other, but there’s a window that Aziraphale thinks he just might be able to squeeze through. If only he can get his legs to move. He’s kneeled in the center of the room, blood dripping from all the small cuts crisscrossing his face. Simple enough to heal, if he could just get these blasted manacles off—

“‘e’s in here,” the sorcerer says, voice high with excitement. Two sets of footsteps creak through the house. Aziraphale lifts his head. The door opens and the sorcerer strides back in, eyes shining with delight. “I didn’t think they actually existed, but the manacles worked!”

_Now what?_ he wonders, and then Crowley saunters into the room. He freezes mid-step when he sees Aziraphale, and then goes inhumanly still.

Fear pulses in Aziraphale’s chest, sharp and sudden. He’s known Crowley since Eden. They’ve always had a sort of unspoken camaraderie, two agents abandoned on Earth and mostly ignored by their bosses. But they’ve always been on equal ground. Aziraphale has never been _vulnerable_ in front of Crowley. Now, though, he can barely hold himself up, and he’s remembering, belatedly, that Crowley is very much a demon, and they are very much on Opposite Sides. What commendation would Crowley receive for capturing a weakened angel? What tortures could Hell think up to put him through? Certainly something far beyond Aziraphale’s limited imagination.

For several interminable minutes, the only sound in the room is the quiet _drip, drip, drip_ of Aziraphale’s blood falling to the floor.

Crowley’s grin is demonic. It’s wide, and cruel, and his teeth are sharp and elongated. His eyes are large and savage, pupils huge black stars, ringed an infernal yellow. Aziraphale wants to look away, but he can’t stop watching, oddly fascinated. He’s never seen Crowley so monstrous.

_“Thisss isss my gift?”_ the demon hisses, slithering closer to the sorcerer.

“Y-Yes,” the sorcerer stutters uncertainly.

Huge black wings unfold from Crowley’s back. The shadow they cast creeps across the room, swallowing everything it touches into the night. It’s not so much a display of power as it is a loss of control. Crowley is _furious_, although Aziraphale can’t muddle through exactly _why_.

_“You will live to regret your choiccce,”_ Crowley tells him in a whispery hiss, the midnight black of his wings folding around the sorcerer. The last Aziraphale sees of him before he disappears is a flash of wide green eyes, his mouth opening in a scream that cuts off abruptly.

It’s all over as soon as it starts. The sorcerer has disappeared, and so have Crowley’s wings. He looks like Crowley again: all long lines and angles, thin lips pulled into a familiar frown.

Falling to his knees in front of Aziraphale, he hovers his hands uselessly over the manacles. “Angel,” he croaks. “I never asked for this. You _must_ believe me.” His huge eyes are still wide, but his pupils have narrowed back down to thin slits. Less like an apex predator on the offense, more like the demon who had swayed up next to him, uncertain and wary, in the Garden of Eden.

Aziraphale drops his eyes down to the manacles. His skin has been scorched black under the golden bands. This feels like a turning point. He can either trust that Crowley had no idea what the sorcerer planned to do, or he can—not.

It’s an easy enough decision to make.

He lifts his up his arms and smiles tiredly. “Be a dear and get these blasted things off of me.”

Crowley closes his eyes for a long moment, bowing his head. Then he releases a shuddery breath, takes the manacles with both his hands, and wrenches them off Aziraphale’s wrists.

**3.  
Crowley is—his friend.**

_London, 1801 AD_

Something changed after the whole adventure with the sorcerer. Instead of running into each other every other century, Crowley starts showing up every other decade, ostensibly “on accident,” although Aziraphale has the strangest feeling that he’s being checked up on.

“I still can’t believe you let yourself get captured by that two-bit warlock,” says Crowley one day in Aziraphale’s newly opened bookshop.

Aziraphale sighs, glaring at the single customer who is bravely poking around the shelves. “That happened nearly a millennia ago, my dear.”

“Less than eight hundred years ago.” Crowley leans a hip against the counter, frowning accusingly at Aziraphale. “I just don’t understand how he managed to catch you.”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” says Aziraphale, frowning back. “It’s not as if I strolled up to him and asked to be captured.” He rubs one wrist at the memory. It had taken months for them to heal properly, infused as those manacles were with Hellfire, and even now there are still faint scars ringing his skin.

“What would you have done if I wasn’t there to save you, huh?” says Crowley, glaring down at Aziraphale’s wrists. “Or if it were a different demon? Hell, what would you have done if it were Ligur who was summoned instead of me? Or Beezlebub? You would have been dragged Downstairs to be tortured for eternity.”

Aziraphale sighs and goes back to scowling threateningly at the customer. This has become a well-worn argument, and while Aziraphale has the patience of an angel, he’s getting tired of rehashing something that happened literal centuries ago. “Well, I imagine that some demon would eventually brag about capturing an angel and that you would find a way to rescue me.” His forehead scrunches a little. That makes him sound more helpless than he actually is. “Or I would find a way to escape. One or the other.”

When Crowley doesn’t immediately respond, Aziraphale cocks a glance at him, questioning. His eyebrows are lifted high over his spectacles, forehead scrunched in a familiar look of disbelief.

“What is it?” says Aziraphale.

“Uh,” says Crowley, with the eloquence he’s known for. He tears his eyes away from Aziraphale to look down at his hands, then picks up a book, fidgety. Aziraphale tuts and takes it away from him, since it’s a first edition _Gulliver’s Travels_ and Aziraphale had worked very hard to get his hands on it. Bereft of something to fiddle with, Crowley drums his fingers on the counter. “You, ah, you trust me that much, huh?”

Aziraphale blinks. After everything they’d gone through, he even needs to ask? “Of course I do,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley’s cheeks flush pink. “Oh,” he says, voice a little funny. “Right. That’s, uh, good.” Suddenly he jerks away from the counter, fumbling his watch out of his pocket. “Would you look at the time? I best be off.”

“I thought we were having dinner,” says Aziraphale, confused, but Crowley’s already scurried out of the bookshop, as if the hounds of Hell are biting at his heels.

**4.  
Crowley is kind.**

_London, 1999 AD_

Starbucks has just opened a new coffee bar in London, and while Aziraphale objects to bloodthirsty corporations on a whole, curiosity had won out. And so he had braved the riotous crowd and had ordered something called a Chocolate Cookies and Crème Frappuccino. He’s just working out how he’s supposed to drink the blasted thing when he comes across a figure bending over in front of his bookshop’s door.

“Excuse me—Crowley, is that you?”

Crowley springs into the air like a startled cat, whirling around with his hands flung out in front of him defensively. “Aziraphale! I wasn’t doing anything weird, swear to—hang on, how did you know it was me?”

That’s a good question. Aziraphale realizes, belatedly, that he somehow knew who Crowley was from his behind, which would imply that he’s made a careful—if unconscious—study of it. “Of course I recognized you,” Aziraphale blusters. “I’ve known you for nearly six thousand years, although you’ve certainly made yourself absent recently.”

They hadn’t met up like this since the late 1960s, after Aziraphale had given Crowley the thermos of holy water. Crowley had thankfully grown out his hair again, but his jeans are dreadfully torn, tucked into a pair of oversized black combat boots, and he has a flannel shirt tied around his waist. Aziraphale has to admire his dedication to blending in, even if the effect is rather goofy. Although the tight gray v-neck is a nice touch.

“Right,” says Crowley, brightly. “Well, I’ll just be off.”

“So soon?” says Aziraphale. He’s not even surprised by the stab of disappointment. It’s been a long time since he’s had company of any kind. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly lonely, he wonders what would have happened had he took Crowley up on his offer all those years ago. Sometimes he even regrets rejecting him, even though he still believes it was the right decision at the time. It’s so _easy_ to be swept up in Crowley’s wake. Around Crowley, Aziraphale always feels as if he’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous. Or grand. It’s far too risky to find out which.

But he misses the demon—his friend—and so he says, “My dear, I haven’t seen you in over three decades. Won’t you come in for a spot of tea? Or something stronger—”

Crowley shakes his head, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. “I really must be off. My, er, car. Needs to be repainted.”

Aziraphale isn’t that familiar with automobiles, but he’s a little surprised that they need to be painted more than once. “Can’t you just—” He wiggles his fingers demonstratively.

“Not on _my_ Bentley.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, disappointed.

Crowley rolls his lips together. He’s replaced his round sunglasses with a pair with squarish lenses to fit with the times. They suit him, although Aziraphale wishes, as usual, that he could see his eyes.

“We’ll do lunch soon,” says Crowley, softening a little. One corner of his mouth cocks up in a sardonic smile. “The Ritz, you said?”

The back of Aziraphale’s neck warms up at the reminder of their last meeting. “Alright,” he says. He’s mostly successful in keeping the disappointment out of his voice.

“Right,” says Crowley, but makes no move to leave. Aziraphale can’t see his eyes, but he can feel them, studying his face. Rather like he’s studying Crowley’s face.

_It’s been too long,_ he almost says, but then Crowley jerks away from the door. “See you around then, angel,” he says.

“Alright,” says Aziraphale again, but Crowley is already weaving through the Soho foot traffic, hands in his pockets. Aziraphale watches him until he’s swallowed up by the crowd, suddenly feeling horribly alone.

Sighing, he twitches his fingers at the door to unlock it, and then pauses. Sitting on his stoop is a small box, crudely wrapped with paper decorated in cherub angels. Aziraphale crouches down to pick it up, then snorts a startled laugh. Every cherub has little demon horns meticulously drawn in their golden curls.

Aziraphale brings the gift to his desk. He’s careful not to tear the paper when he unwraps it, then folds it neatly and places it in his desk drawer. His hands hover over the top of the box, and then he rubs at his eye.

This is the first time anyone has ever given him a gift.

Foolish. There’s absolutely no reason why he should be feeling so overwhelmed. Knowing Crowley, it’s probably a prank. Possibly one of those snakes that jump out of a can when opened.

He opens the box.

Nestled in several crumpled packing tissues is a glossy white mug, with two arched angel wings for its handle. Aziraphale exhales a shuddery breath, carefully lifting it from the box. A small note detaches from where it had become stuck to the bottom of the mug and flutters to his desk. Aziraphale picks it up.

_I know you told me not to say thank you, but I’m a demon so I don’t need to listen to you. Thanks for the you-know-what.  
\- C_

**5.  
Crowley is home.**

_London, Five Days into the Rest of Their Lives_

Crowley is telling the story about his favorite invention. It’s perhaps the fifth time Aziraphale has heard it during their four day celebration after successfully tricking both Upstairs and Downstairs, although every time Crowley tells it, it’s a little different.

“Pop up ads,” slurs Crowley, popping his hands open in demonstration, his yellow eyes huge and elated. “Did I tell you how I invented pop up ads? It’s because some prissy company got upset about their—their—”

“Car ads,” says Aziraphale, smiling a little. He’s sitting on Crowley’s throne, resting his chin on his hand and watching Crowley pace out his frenetic energy. Crowley’s desk is littered with empty bottles of the finest wine Aziraphale had stored away for an occasion such as this.

“Car ads!” Crowley shouts, flinging his hands to the air. “There was a car ad that appeared on a site about—about—”

“Intercourse,” Aziraphale supplies, grinning.

“In the ass!” bellows Crowley, throwing himself on his couch and laughing victoriously.

Aziraphale laughs with him, mostly because of Crowley’s jubilation instead of the misplaced car ads. This is the first time Aziraphale has seen Crowley so joyous and _free_, and it makes his own heart swell with love.

_Oh,_ he thinks. _I can have that now._

Crowley’s laughter fades. He knuckles the corner of his eye, then cocks his head to the side. His smile is a little puzzled. “What’s on your mind, angel?”

_I love you,_ Aziraphale thinks. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, straightening up from his lazy slouch. “Everything alright there, mate?”

Aziraphale stares at him, wide-eyed. When did this happen? The feeling isn’t new—it’s a familiar warmth sitting in the left side of his chest. Was it the church in 1941? No, before that. The sorcerer? Noah’s Ark? _Eden_? It feels timeless, like he’s loved Crowley since the Beginning, and just hasn’t acknowledged it. Until now.

“Crowley,” he says, uncertainly.

“Yeah?” says Crowley, a little concerned. “You alright, angel? Need to sober up?”

_Oh,_ Aziraphale thinks, blinking as his vision suddenly blurs. _He loves me, too._

**+1.  
Aziraphale is his everything.**

_London, Five Days (Plus Some Minutes) into the Rest of Their Lives_

“Aziraphale?” Crowley shoots to his feet, alarmed. Fat tears roll slowly down Aziraphale’s cheeks as he stares at Crowley, stricken. “What’s wrong—what _happened_?”

He stumbles forward to kneel at Aziraphale’s feet, catching one of his hands in both of his. Aziraphale has never cried before—at least, never in front of him, not even when he’d been tortured by that fucking sorcerer—and the sight of those tears tumbling incessantly down his cheeks makes Crowley want to find whoever has hurt his angel and _murder them indiscriminately_.

“—I’ll tear them to pieces—” Crowley hears himself say. He hadn’t even realized he was murmuring vicious threats soothingly to Aziraphale. “I’ll lay a curse upon their entire family so every generation that follows knows nothing but fear and pain. I will burn down this entire city—the _world_—just tell me who _hurt_ you—”

“Oh, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, sliding out of his chair to kneel across from him. He lifts his free hand to cup the side of Crowley’s face. The tears haven’t stopped. “I _love_ you.”

_So this,_ Crowley thinks, distantly, _is what it feels like to die._

This—_this_ is what humans mean when they say their life flashes before their eyes. Crowley’s life is just a series of events that have led him to this point, right now, kneeling in front of Aziraphale.

A tavern in the middle ages, thrilling over the fact that he’d just stolen Aziraphale’s drink, pressing his lips in the same place where the angel’s lips have pressed, a stolen, deeply pathetic kiss.

A small room, the angel knelt in the middle of the floor, a trail of blood trickling from a gash on his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, dripping to the floor—fear tripping into blinding fury—he still isn’t entirely sure where he sent that sorcerer, nor does he care.

Aziraphale’s bookshop, a million times in his bookshop, but one time in particular, when Aziraphale told him he trusts him.

A thermos of holy water.

A kitschy porcelain mug with arched angel wings.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, the soft pad of his thumb caressing his snake tattoo.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses. “Tell me thisss isssn’t a joke.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale says again, his voice somehow both firm and wobbly. “I love you. I love you. I can say it now, and I’ll say it until eternity. I love you, a thousand times over. Six thousand times over. I love—”

Crowley scrambles forward, catching himself on Aziraphale’s shoulders with both his hands, their noses bumping together in his clumsy desperation. He finds the words still on Aziraphale’s tongue and tastes them, salty from his tears, sweet from the wine. Aziraphale’s arms come up to wrap around him, holding him together—without them, he will shake apart. He will fly into a million pieces. The kiss burns through him, into his pathetic little heart, until his cup is overflowing, until his chest feels like it’s fit to burst.

“I love you,” Aziraphale pulls back to say. “But please, my dear, tell me if you love me, too.”

“Angel—you even need to—” Crowley sputters. “_Yes,_ I love you! Isn’t it obvious?” He wrenches his hands into Aziraphale’s shirt, glaring hatefully into his eyes. Aziraphale stares right back, wet-eyed and besotted.

“You are my _everything_,” Crowley snarls, furiously.


End file.
